Sounds of Silence
by Decoded3
Summary: When John sits alone in the empty flat the silence threatens to break him apart. Now the one thing that's left of his friend has slipped away just as he had and John doesn't think he can bear it. Based on the recently recovered Stradivarius violin in London and my take on the reunion!
1. Chapter 1

**This is for my soul sister. Without her, my ramblings would be trapped forever within my mind palace and I would surely become the female equivalent of Moriarty~ Albeit, not as charming.**

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_**Based on true events- For those of you who don't know, a 1619 Stradivarius was regained very recently after a 3 year haitus in which it had gone missing IN CENTRAL LONDON no less, practically around the corner from Baker Street! ( I checked! ) In Doyle's writings Holmes owned a traditional Stradivarius violin. Anyone seeing a connection here? I figured if Moffat and Gatiss stay true to this timeline (unlikely, but whatever) and we assume Sherlock's 'suicide' took place in 2010 rather than the actual air date (semantics) who's to say Sherlock didn't swipe his own violin? He'd go mad if he couldn't play it. **_

_**The reunion a la Max. (;**_

Seriously, read the above.

It took John five days, seven hours and thirty two minutes after moving back into 221B to discover it was missing. Grieving or not, its disappearance was absolutely unacceptable and the numbness that seemed to have descended on him two weeks ago was eradicated by the horrifying revelation. John leaped from his battered chair and began to tear the flat apart, determined to prove that it had simply been moved. It couldn't be gone too. He tossed aside cushions and began pawing through rubbish, adamantly avoiding any of _his_ belongings.

When John first entered the kitchen or the makeshift laboratory, he refused to so much as glance at the experiments on the counter tops despite the rancid smell of whatever had gone off as a result of the multiple tests. He didn't know _why _he was throwing open drawers in the kitchen, but his body seemed to be running on automatic, rushing about without his consent in a frantic effort to find what was lost. His fingers absently brushed a beaker, knocking it to the kitchen floor and it shattered everywhere. John froze, staring at the contents of the vial now spreading onto the tiles and accompanying the drips of cold sweat from John's brow.

The ensuing silence- the lack of furious pacing footsteps, crack of gunfire, that unbearable screeching on the-

Suddenly, John was a frenzy of violent motion, spilling piles of useless notes and calculations to the ground and overturning tables in a fit to recover it, to end the horrible, nauseating silence. He knew it was manic and he knew he was having an episode, but John couldn't- _wouldn't_ calm himself.

The violin, Sherlock's Stradivarius was gone.

John felt the now far too familiar sensation of his chest constricting as something vile and sinister coiled around his lungs and squeezed. He was forced to grip the mantelpiece for support and screw his eyes shut, trying to drown out the overwhelming sensation. But how can you drown something out that isn't there? _Really__ John, __It's all just a chemical reaction._ He could practically see his flatmate's reaction- the roll of his eyes at how petty and unnecessary John's emotions were.  


The Stradivarius was Sherlock's most treasured possession. His pride and joy. His nearly singular form of expression. Tchaikovsky had sounded like silk when he'd run the bow over the strings, as though he were delicately stroking the surface of a placid lake and didn't wish to disturb it. The sort of reverence that Sherlock held for his instrument was nothing short of adoration and John couldn't bear to think- wouldn't _allow_ himself to think it could be missing, like it's human counterpart. That it could so easily follow- slip between the fabric of this world and the next so unnervingly, so seamlessly, as though it never existed to begin with.

The last thing he'd said to his friend face to face had been wrong. A machine- John could have laughed. No one so unfeeling could produce such beautiful sound.

As John rested his head against wall memories of his first nights at Baker Street flooded his mind. Of the endless hateful dreams of Afghanistan that had threatened to undo him. After only two nights of lying in bed, chest shuddering and John's own mind threatening to betray him to horrors behind closed eyelids, he'd begged whatever higher power existed, _prayed_ that the maniac he'd decided to live with hadn't heard anything.

On the third night, after a particularly horrid experience, John collapsed back onto his sheets bonelessly and just lay there, forcing the tears at bay and trying to catch his breath. Vivaldi, a soft, soothing melody had drawn him from his haunting thoughts and eventually John's body had stopped it's shaking, his eyes had closed and within moments he'd lost himself in it. Somehow, after months and months of endless nights tossing and waking in a terror, the music managed to lull his half crazed mind to sleep. Nothing was mentioned in the morning, but every night afterwards, when he'd find himself tangled in his blankets with sweat soaking his clothing, the music was there.

The nightmares and sleepless nights had returned now, vicious and cruel, with nothing to soothe them now that the subject of his nightmares was the very person who'd kept them at bay.

Without the deft fingers and genius talent behind it, the Stradivarius was just a very expensive instrument, but Sherlock had filled that emptiness. He poured his heart and _soul_ into his music- the ones he claimed not to have.

Sherlock's violin was symbolic of everything the man was.

John would be damned if he lost that too.

With unsteady hands he fished his mobile from his pocket. Somehow his trembling fingers managed to dial the number correctly and his frantic call was answered by an exhausted, but concerned voice on the first ring. That was when John noticed the time. Ah, yes, well when you've adapted to sleeping habits of a self-proclaimed sociopath and couple it with PTSD inspired night terrors, you end up with a rather interesting sleep schedule.

"John?"

"Greg! Listen, I need your help! Sh- his- his violin, it's gone missing. I turned the flat upside down- god, Greg, I…I went in his room."The army doctor in him was fighting to keep his composure and John cursed himself when despite his best efforts, his voice shook several times, betraying how unnerved he was.

Greg, clearly a bit worried by John's state of mind, considering everything, was immediately demanding the other's attention, all weariness gone from his tone and replaced by tolerance that surprised even himself.

"John, John, listen to me mate." When the doctor's breathing seemed to slow a bit Greg said in a hushed voice, "I'll be right over there then, alright?"

A rustle of clothing and a jingle of keys. John bit his lip painfully and nodded.

"John?" Greg repeated, having received no response.

"Yes- yes, Greg thank- thank you." John stumbled pathetically over his words as the relief threatened to overpower his already precarious hold on his emotions. He hung up the phone before the DI could ask any questions and ruefully set the device on the mantelpiece. John slid down the wall and squatted beside the fireplace, jaw set in a firm line as he glared at the opposing wall without actually seeing it. He waited in silence.

Not ten minutes later the DI was bursting up the stairs and through John's front door, screeching to a halt at the chaos of 221B. His tan trench coat swished around his ankles as he tottered, glancing around uneasily before catching sight of John, still huddled against the mantelpiece. Greg seemed to relax a bit then, but he was far from at ease. He was wearing a suit at this hour? John felt unwarranted amusement bubble up in his stomach and he gave a lopsided grin. Greg's eyes lit with concern. Mrs. Hudson had followed him up the steps clad in nothing but her nightgown and cardigan and was surveying the destruction with a slightly reproachful eye now that the surprise had subsided. She uttered a soft, "Goodness!" confirming that the flat was indeed a formidable a mess.

John briefly wondered how many traffic laws Greg must have broken to get there so quickly. Had he come from home it would have taken him much longer, surely. If he'd rushed there from New Scotland Yard then the time frame would have made more sense. John shook his head, trying not to bring up the origin of these learned tactics.

John rose to his feet and Greg's eyes met his, shocked and wary.

"What the bloody hell's happened?" he demanded, glancing from John to the strewn rubbish on the carpet to John again in consternation. There were quite a few more lines in the face of the Detective Inspector and his usually warm eyes were dulled. He seemed much older than when John last saw him. At Sherlock's funeral.

John simply forced out, "It's missing."

Greg blinked, clearly wondering how to go about remedying the situation when Mrs. Hudson- bless her- piped up behind him helpfully, "What's missing dear?"

John almost gave a small grin at the older woman's mother henning, but all he could manage was a tiny quirk of his lips before that disappeared too. He drew himself up with a deep breath and collected himself as though he hadn't kicked up enough fuss to wake the neighborhood earlier. He was a soldier, dammit. He steeled himself and asked.

"His violin, Mrs. Hudson. Have you seen it?"

Of course, John didn't need to clarify who 'he' was. It went without saying. He'd refused to say Sherlock's name since the day he fell, but sweet Mrs. Hudson hadn't said a word and it went unmentioned between the two of them in a form of mutual understanding. The sorrow on her face at it's lack of use was there all the same, coupled with the distantly familiar look of someone who doesn't know what to do for someone else who is visibly suffering. _Pity_, John thought. While the concept was hardly new for an injured vet, it didn't sting any less.

"No, I'm afraid I haven't, dear. You know he never lets me…" She stopped, catching herself at the use of present tense and simply trailed off, leaving her sentence unfinished. Her eyes looked moist compared to a moment ago, John noted, fighting the urge to cringe. Greg seemed to be trying to look anywhere but at the two of them. He settled for gazing at his shoes. Guilt. As much as a part of John urged that it wasn't the DI's fault Sherlock was gone, he certainly wasn't going to reassure him.

John took another deep breath to steady himself.

Finally, after a long moment of tense silence Mrs. Hudson spoke up again.

"Perhaps he misplaced that old thing, you know how he was-"

"No," John shook his head emphatically, "No- he wouldn't Mrs. Hudson. His violin was really... well, _really_ important to him-"

"Damn right it was." Greg cut in, looking solemn. He was taking in the trashed flat with a new critical eye. "Sherlock… When he-" Greg sucked in a breath and moved his arm in a vague sort of gesture that could have meant anything, but the two other occupants of the room understood. "He sold everything, but the clothes on his back to get some of it, everything, but that violin." A wistful look overtook the older man's features and seemed to erase the recent lines he'd gained around his eyes. John remained silent.

"You've looked everywhere?" Greg demanded, catching John's eye penetratingly. John swallowed and nodded, repeating his words from earlier.

"I went in his room."

Greg gave him a long look, tinged with something unreadable. He said nothing. John knew then that it was gone, with the same hopeless certainty that he knew it's companion- Sherlock- mad, brilliant, _idiot_ Sherlock was lying in a casket 6 feet below the ground. The one thing he had left of the detective had disappeared just as quickly and remorselessly as he had. John felt empty. Like the fragile outer shell encasing what used to be his life no longer had any foundation to stand on and was about to crumble- disintegrate and be carried away by his own grief and rage. He straightened and stared Greg in face. He calmly announced that someone _would_ help him on this.

"Well," said the Detective inspector slowly, as though he were being forced to grind out words he didn't want to speak. He seemed to bite his cheek for a moment and winced before he continued, refusing to meet John's eyes. "I've been suspended from duty until further notice."

The dark brown orbs dim briefly and a small pit of guilt lying in John's stomach yawned wider in regards to his friend's situation. He stamped down the emotion bitterly, knowing there was nothing he could do to prevent what had happened. What _was_ happening. All of them were suffering right now, John conceded.

"And it's really not my division." Greg joked weakly with a smile that looked even more forced and pained than the words had sounded. "Do you think it's been stolen?"

John could have screamed at the question. He knew Greg was obligated and trained to ask after the facts, but the army doctor couldn't help but wonder if this was how his flatmate felt every time someone at the Yard or anyone around him really, couldn't see what was blatantly obvious. John sighed heavily and forced his bone dry throat to convulse one last time. He nodded, gazing at the mess of his flat in a sort of confused anger. What sort of person would do this? Why did it have to be this? Anything else. Wasn't he suffering enough already? Greg sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Oh dear, who would steal a violin? Of all the things…" Mrs. Hudson chirped, clearly distressed.

John, upset himself, was aware that Mrs. Hudson wasn't helping the situation and pursed his lips angrily.

"_Please_, Mrs. Hudson." He all but snapped at her. The doctor regretted his outburst instantly of course, but his landlady merely tutted and with one last despairing glance at the ravaged flat, said something about making tea and bustled down the stairs.

Greg seemed to be just as confused.

"Why the violin? How much was it worth exactly?" He mused, looking to John thoughtfully.

John scoffed indelicately and Greg raised an eyebrow in annoyance.

"Oh, Only about seven hundred and fifty thousand pounds." He announced sardonically.

Greg's jaw dropped open in a manner that had John expecting to hear his flatmate's blunt criticism, but of course, there was none forthcoming. He squeezed his eyes shut in disappointment.

"Seventy five-"

"Hundred thousand. Yes." John reiterated, cutting off Greg's spluttered surprise. He was upset and weary, not exactly rearing to handle a stunned DI. "A 1619 Stradivarius."

Greg stared, mouth still hanging open slightly and croaked, "A Stradivarius…" He shook his head in amazement. "It's rumored that there are only around 600 left in existence." He murmured in awe.

John blinked in astonishment and shot the Detective Inspector an incredulous look.

"Sherlock." Greg seemed to catch himself on the name as though it had somehow escaped from his lips involuntarily and choked him. John visibly flinched, but luckily the DI's attention was focused on something John couldn't see and the man was completely oblivious to his reaction.

"He- he mentioned something of the sort before, but uhm… I mean, I never- I never thought..Blimey."

Greg's eyes met John's sad blue ones with a sort of weary acceptance that made him ache and softly said, "I'll send someone." Before turning from the flat with a little nod, a swallow and thick resounding silence that once again settled over everything. John was left standing in the ruin of what used to be his life.

_'I told you he would notice.'- MH_

_'Piss off, Mycroft.'- SH_

_'Sentiment.'- MH_

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**750,000 POUNDS= 1.2 MILLION AMERICAN DOLLARS.**

**That's kind of a big deal.**

**Also, I've never been a good John. I'd be better at interpreting Sherlock. I'm a terrible, terrible John, but I hope to god he was in character because I can't stand fics where they're not. I did my best. Don't strap me into a SEMTEX vest please... D:**

**~MAX!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hey guys! Thanks for reading! Chapter two is up and I gotta say, this story would not be possible without my amazing laptop which I got in the mail a couple days ago. I'm in LOVE.**

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John had tried everything. He, the Yard, Banksy's connections in the black market and hell, John had even coerced Mycroft into searching the CCTV footage under threat of bodily harm (although it didn't actually seem necessary, it improved John's mood), but there was no sign of the violin anywhere. The only route John refused to take was enlisting the help of the newspapers that had so maliciously torn Sherlock and his reputation to shreds. John posted on his dwindling blog, hoping for a someone to come forward.

Multiple times in his frustration, John had found himself thinking Sherlock would have found the solution almost immediately. Then he'd catch himself and push the thoughts away as forcefully and as angrily as he could manage.

For the first couple of months John would make the tea and only once he'd seated himself across from the detective's favourite armchair would John realize he'd brewed one cup too many. He'd leave them both to cool on the table and shut himself in his room just to sit on his bed and stare at the bare wall in front of him, trying not to think about anything. He'd had plenty of time to practice this ritual before he'd moved in with his insane flatmate, before rushing about London chasing criminals, before _everything_. So why was it so much more difficult now?

One day he'd discovered his mistake of making a second cup of tea for the hundredth damned time and that's when his step faltered. It was only a slight misstep, but the pain lancing through his leg, as brief as it had been was all too familiar. His left hand shook with tremors and he dropped the tea cup as if it had stung him, fragile porcelain shattering on the kitchen tiles with a crash that had poor Mrs. Hudson rushing up the stairs to survey the damage. When she took in the sight of her distraught tenant, staring at his left hand in horror, body leaning heavily against the counter top and braced against his elbow to keep his balance she hurried to his side, murmuring sweet nothings to comfort him and escorting him to the settee to have a sit.

The disbelief and panic in his eyes was enough for her to play being the nurse for the rest of the evening.

It couldn't be possible. Sherlock had _fixed_ him.

_Well, he's not here now, is he_? John placed his head in his hands. The silence of the empty flat seemed to mourn with him.

He dreamed of the incident at Bart's and awoke on the floor in a cold sweat. The oppressive silence the greeted him confirmed that John's nightmare was far from over. This time, it wouldn't be.

He'd all but given up retrieving the last reminder of his best friend.

Three years had effectively eliminated the scent of him and Mrs. Hudson had gotten rid of the experiments and notes. John had pitched a fit, screaming at the top of his lungs at the poor woman, releasing all of his hurt and rage on her until she'd fled in tears. John was mortified. He'd followed her not five minutes later to find her still sniffling over her kitchen table and hesitantly wrapped her up in a gentle hug which she eagerly returned, sobbing quietly into his jumper as he held her. Three years and it still hurt so much.

"Oh," She'd said in response to his feeble apology, batting at his chest with a rag, "I've dealt with worse than _that_, dear- you know I have."

Her small, sad smile and obvious meaning had John chuckling for the first time since his best friend had left them both. If John noticed the skull resting atop her kitchen counter, he didn't say anything.

The silence was so loud it seemed to swallow John whole. Wrap around him and smother him with it's sheer, overwhelming presence. Sometimes John hoped that it would.

The music store down the street sold Tchaikovsky- Sherlock's favourite- Mozart, Vivaldi and other classicals that he'd used to play in the middle of the night when he thought only John could hear him. The music sounded hollow. It made the flat seem emptier- a reminder of what John could never again have. The nightmares didn't stop.

Next John had even tried attending a concert. He'd taken a cab nearly all the way there, his leg protesting at even the two blocks he'd defiantly chosen to walk anyway. For a long while he didn't quite manage to lose himself to the music, but at some point he turned to whisper something to an empty seat and the words died on his lips.

John left.

He stopped trying after that. When Lestrade's man from the Yard came by to tell him there was nothing more they could do, John had to resist the nearly overpowering urge to hurl something at the man, to verbally attack him and belittle the whole lot of them for their incompetence. Instead he accepted the Yarder's apologies and resigned himself to the fact that they weren't Sherlock Holmes. It was because of this that they didn't stand a chance. They simply weren't _good enough_. It was only afterwards that John realized how similar his thoughts had been to what his friend would have undoubtedly voiced.

Although John's composure had cracked and splintered through this encounter it didn't fully crash and burn until Mycroft himself appeared in his doorway, umbrella in hand and a frown on his face.

John should have known better anyway.

That was when, three years after the suicide and ensuing silence a blip arrived on the radar. It occurred in the form of a blog post.

"Doctor Watson, I believe I have the solution to your problem."

No matter how many replies John sent there was no answer, no elaboration to the anonymous post. Not until two weeks afterward.

Blood on the pavement, alabaster skin dark curls soaked with blood and those empty eyes…staring. John bolted upright in his bed, a soft sob on his lips and blood pounding in his ears as his lungs greedily sucked in the oxygen they couldn't seem to get enough of. His eyes were wet and his sheets were tangled around his legs. He collapsed back onto the mattress and simply stared at the ceiling, gasping for huge lungfuls of air. The numbness was fading as the nightmare hit him again and he screwed his eyes tightly shut to ward off the images, but they snapped open immediately.

Soft, delicate notes, lovely and mournful floated through his doorway.

John only froze a moment before he tore out of bed like a cornered animal, tripping himself up in the sheets, but hardly caring as he threw his bedroom door open roughly enough to hear it crack against the wall and he bolted down the stairs two at a time, limp forgotten.

He stopped cold on the bottom step, clutching the banister tightly enough that the wood creaked beneath his grip as he struggled to keep upright.

There, in his living room, stood a tall, suited man with unruly black locks, back turned and head tilted to accommodate the instrument he was playing with deft strokes of his wrist.

Suddenly, the figure stopped mid-note, lowering the familiar bow and turned his head to give his friend a familiar appraising look, analyzing everything about him in less time than I took John to blink.

"Ah, John. There you are." He turned to look around the flat, eyes settling for a brief moment on the mantelpiece before stating almost casually, with a sweep of the bow gesturing towards his area of inquisition, "What's Mrs. Hudson done with my skull?"

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**THE END**

**OF COURSE Sherlock stole his own violin. John, you silly goose. (;**


End file.
